


Flight Path

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Geoff join the mile high club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight Path

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt I received and filled in porny celebration of having 400+ followers on my tumblr, horrificsmut.tumblr.com. Come say hi if you do the tumblr thing!

Like most ridiculous situations that Michael finds himself in with Geoff, fucking in an airplane bathroom starts out as a joke. 

By the time they're on the plane to Barcelona from JFK, it's already been a long goddamned day, with the old-school AH six flying out of Austin at 5 goddamned a.m. Four hours in the air, a three-hour layover in the sprawling New York hub, and then all they have to look forward to is an eight and a half hour flight across the Atlantic.

They'd booked coach because the price difference between economy and first class is a whopping 2K.

Once they reach the gate at JFK, Michael flops down with all of the luggage, Geoff walks up to the desk to check in, and the rest of the team goes off to scout food. And when Geoff comes back with a grim look on his face, Michael assumes the worst.

"What, are we delayed?"

"No, uh, they upgraded some of our tickets to first class," Geoff says.

"Holy shit," Michael says. "You and me in first class right? Livin' it up right and--"

"Everybody _but_ us, actually," Geoff says, cutting him off.

"What the fuck, Geoff?"

"I don't know! They said they had four spots and I fucking panicked," Geoff says. "I didn't want to be an asshole and upgrade myself."

"You don't normally have a hard time being an asshole," Michael says. "Of all the fucking times to be selfless, jesus christ. And why _me_?"

"You _know_ why you," Geoff says, frowning at him.

"I thought there would be some sort of, I don't know, _reward system_ involved in sleeping with my fucking boss," Michael says, pouting. "Instead I'll probably be crammed next to some crying baby for nine hours. Thanks, man."

Michael crosses his arms and sinks down into the uncomfortable airport chair.

"I'll make it up to you," Geoff says.

"You'll make up a goddamned first class fight to Barcelona?" Michael says, raising an eyebrow. "It's gonna take more than a trip to the fucking taco truck when we get home to make up for this one, boss."

And Michael watches as a very specific kind of smile spreads over the other man's face. The kind of smile that says " _Michael, you're about to make a very, very bad decision with me._ "

It's a smile he's become very familiar with.

"We could join the Mile High Club, Michael," Geoff says, dropping his voice and going goofy.

"Goddamn it, Geoff," Michael says. "I'd rather have champagne and warm towels than a turbulent fuck in a tiny bathroom."

"OK," Geoff says, putting his hands up in surrender. "Don't say I never tried to make it up to you though."

\---

Two hours into the flight, they’re both equal parts buzzed and miserable.

Michael’s quip about the crying baby was strangely prescient, and they both do their best to ignore the pathetic sounding infant behind them who keeps waking up and freaking out.

Alone back in coach, with the rest of the team in the lap of luxury, Geoff and Michael tuck into their TSA-regulated liquid quart baggies, which they filled with miniature bottles of alcohol. (Geoff had read something about it on the internet and sure enough, the TSA agents didn’t even raise an eyebrow at their bags full of Knob Creek and Grey Goose). Michael is still pouting when they break into the bags, but he toasts Geoff anyway before they crack and toss back the room-temperature spirits.  

It barely touches the agony of economy seats on a transatlantic flight, though, and soon they’re both cracking a second bottle. The second shot goes down harsher than the first but at least they’re both feeling it.

“That hits the spot,” Geoff says with a sigh as the baby behind them starts up again.

Michael pops up and swivels to look to the back of the jet, checking the line for the bathroom. “I’m gonna stretch my legs and hit the bathroom while the coast is clear,” he says.

Geoff tucks in his legs as Michael shuffles by, reaching up at the last minute to squeeze Michael’s ass.

Michael shoots him a dirty look.

“What?” Geoff says innocently. “Close quarters--honest mistake--sheesh.”

\---

When he gets there, the bathroom isn’t as bad as some of the smaller jets Michael’s been on. But hell is it ever tiny.

How the fuck, he wonders, had Geoff thought they would’ve been able to have sex in this closet of a bathroom?

Someone knocks on the door as Michael is running cold water over his hands. He just wants to stand there a moment longer, let his legs stop feeling so cramped.

“Yeah, one second,” Michael says through the door.

No answer.

Another knock--more insistent this time.

Michael ignores it and the person outside continues, the knocking crescendoing.

“Wow, OK, Christ,” Michael says, shaking off his hands. He opens the door--and of course it’s Geoff. Michael frowns and tries to maneuver around his boss, but Geoff has that fucking look again, a crooked smile spreading under his mustache as he pushes Michael bodily back into the bathroom, locking the latch behind himself. There’s barely enough room for the two of them to keep their feet on the floor, and Geoff’s legs are between his, the taller man stooped in the awkward bathroom alcove.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Michael says.

“Is that a no?” Geoff says, taking Michael by the hips. They’re already pressed against each other groin to groin--it’s not as if there’s anywhere Michael could escape to. Geoff doesn’t wait for an answer, his hands already at Michael’s belt, mouth at his neck.

“Christ Geoff, you’re supposed to let me answer your fucking question before your hand’s down my pants,” Michael says. There’s no real fight left in him though--cramped fucking around trumps cramped seats any day, and at least there’s no crying baby in here.

And it’s not as if his body would’ve given him a choice anyway--the immediate proximity of the other man, just seeing Geoff with that bad judgement smile all over his face... He’s already half hard and panting in spite of himself as Geoff strokes him through his boxes.

“Hey, I’m gonna--” his protests interrupted with a heavy pant--”I’m gonna fucking fall over,” Michael says, trying to balance himself without falling back onto the toilet ledge. Geoff doesn’t disengage, only maneuvers Michael around roughly so that his back is to the sink.

Geoff’s kissing him now, tasting like recirculated air and Knob Creek, and without breaking the kiss, Michael struggles up to sit on the sink counter. It gives them at least a little more room--not that Geoff apparently wants it. He presses forward, his hands snaking under Michael’s shirt, until the faucet is pressing hard into the small of Michael’s back.

Geoff’s hands keep roaming, clumsy and almost frantic, and the whiskey-laced urgency turns Michael on as much as Geoff’s touch does. Geoff starts to break the kiss and Michael doesn’t let it happen, biting firmly on the other man’s bottom lip. He wraps his legs around Geoff’s hips and sucks into the kiss, enjoying the desperate little sounds his boss is making now.

Finally they break off to breathe for a moment, and Michael starts to shimmy out of his pants before something occurs to him.

“God, this is so germy and gross,” he says, gesturing to the counter.

Geoff rolls his eyes.

“I think you’ll survive,” he says, roughly pulling Michael’s jeans and underpants down as Michael hikes his hips up.

Michael’s breath hitches as his ass makes contact with the cold countertop, but Geoff doesn’t let his mouth stay unoccupied for long. He spits into his hand nonchalantly before crashing his lips back into Michael’s--like this was just some everyday occurrence, like he had years of experience drunkenly jerking off his employees while roaring 30,000 feet over the goddamned Atlantic.

But good lord, Michael can’t complain with one of Geoff’s hands on his hips and the other one wrapped around his cock. He groans into Geoff’s mouth and he can feel the other man’s lips forming a smile. He pulls back, watching Michael--who’s happy to put on a show.

“See?” Geoff says, apparently triumphant as he strokes and twists lazily up and down Michael’s length. “This is better than first class, right?”

Michael bristles at the comment, despite how good it feels.

“Handjobs are like--hngh--”--he loses his train of thought for a second as Geoff swipes a thumb over his head and does some sort of complicated move with his wrist--”--this is like the economy class of sex acts, Geoff.”

“Oh yeah?” Geoff says, raising an eyebrow and frowning, his strokes coming faster and faster.

“Fuckin… yeah,” Michael says. “You could at least…”--and his mind is wandering again, he’s caught sight of that tattooed hand working his own cock and his brain goes blank for a second--”at least upgrade me to business class with a blow job.”

Geoff puffs out a laugh through his nose.

“I’ll do ya one better,” he says, free hand digging in his back pocket. Michael admires his ability to multi-task as Geoff continues to stroke him with his other hand. Finally he produces what looks like a blue ketchup packet.

Michael can’t help but laugh.

“You just… you just keep single-serving packages of lube on you at all times now?”

Geoff laughs too--knowing it is ridiculous.

“After last week in the bathroom at work, well,” Geoff says, going half serious. “I’m not letting a lack of lube stand between me and what I want again.”

Geoff pulls Michael gently off the counter and steps down onto Michael’s pants, bunched on the floor.

“Step out,” he says brusquely, and Michael pulls his feet out of his shoes and jeans.

A memory flashes vaguely of Geoff handing him a pair of slip-on Vans this morning--when they were getting dressed in the dark for the ungodly early flight--instead of the normal lace-ups he’d wear to travel. Just how fucking long had Geoff been planning this?

But Geoff has him by the naked hips now, spinning him to face the counter, and there’s only time to file the memory away to use to tease the other man later. His brain is already letting go of all logic, the bodily need to be filled overcoming him. Just knowing what the future holds for him in this ridiculous, tiny room bent over a miniature sink has Michael breathing hard and pushing back for more contact.

There’s a small mirror above the sink and Michael watches Geoff impatiently as the other man tears a corner off the plastic packet of lube with his teeth. Geoff squeezes some out into his hand, carefully setting the mostly-full packet onto the counter--and then Geoff’s lips are on the nape of Michael’s neck and a warm hand on his ass, a slick finger pushing into him, faster and more insistent than usual. Michael lets out a shuddering breath before pushing backwards, already moving his hips. Geoff works into him deep, chuckling into his neck.

"Fuck," Michael pants.

“Jesus Christ, Michael,” Geoff says. “You talk awful big until there’s a finger in your ass.” 

“This bathroom’s smaller than my closet, Geoff,” Michael says, grinding back harder. “Excuse me if I’m not really in the mood for fuckin’ foreplay.”

In answer, Geoff pulls out and presses back in with two thick fingers. Michael grunts and takes a deep breath.

“I’ll get the show on the road, in that case,” Geoff says, working his fingers gently now as Michael relaxes. “Didn’t know you were so ready to get fucked at the drop of a hat.”

“Yeah the screaming baby is a real aphrodisiac,” Michael says, slowly moving his hips again. The stretch feels incredible, the stress of a day of travel draining out of his body, Michael’s legs going boneless as he leans harder against the counter. Geoff kisses and licks into his neck as he works his hand into Michael, and Michael watches him in the small mirror. After a moment, Geoff’s eyes flick up and catch his in the mirror.

“Hmm, that’s a nice sight,” he says, regarding the two of them. And Michael has to admit that it is--the two of them both urgent and panting, his own face flushed and lips red, Geoff’s mouth slack and clear eyes heavy-lidded. Geoff bites lightly behind his ear, watching his reaction.

“You gonna fuck me, Geoff, or just lay hickeys all day?” Michael says through a smile, grinding his hips back. Geoff rolls his eyes in the mirror, but frees a hand from Michael’s hips.

Over the roar of the engines, Michael hears Geoff fumbling with his own belt, watches a tattooed hand retrieve the open packet of lube from the counter. He takes a sharp draw of breath as Geoff pulls his hand away--but almost immediately he can feel the firm pressure of the other man’s hard-on at his ass.

“You ready, Michael?” Geoff asks, catching his eyes in the mirror.

“I’ve _been_ ready you assh--”

Michael’s teasing is cut off as the plane drops abruptly and shudders in the air, and Michael’s heart and stomach feel like they’ve swapped places in his body cavity.

“Holy shit,” Geoff says, and they’re both scrambling for purchase at the smooth bathroom surfaces.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Michael says, gripping the faucet as the plane continues to quake. They can hear the ding of the fasten seatbelts sign coming on in the cabinet. Geoff’s eye’s go wide and Michael catches him as he looks to the door.

“Should we--”

“Goddamn it, Geoff,” Michael says through gritted teeth. “Turbulence or not, you’re gonna fucking fuck me in this bathroom, I swear to god.”

Geoff’s reflection nods seriously at him, and as the flight path goes smooth again, they rearrange into their former positions. Michael can feel Geoff’s movement behind him as he strokes himself quickly.

“Everything ok?” Michael asks, more than a little impatient.

“Scared the boner right off me,” Geoff says, his voice cracking. “I fuckin’ hate flying.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Michael says. It only takes a second, though, before Geoff’s holding him by the hip and pressing into him. Michael’s tighter and tenser than he thought and even though they’ve fucked each other in endless permutations and in situations just as alien, Geoff feels impossibly big, and maybe he rushed them too fast--and Michael’s half panicked.

“Fuck, slow, slow,” he cautions, dropping out of his bravado. Geoff sweeps a hand in front of him to press reassuring against his belly, his voice soft and low in Michael’s ear, “Shh, baby, I got you, relax.” And he does sink slowly, sweetly, until Michael can feel his hips pressed against Michael’s ass--and they stand there breathing for a moment.

The plane shakes violently again, and the hand on Michael’s belly goes tense along with every other muscle in the other man’s body.

“Jesus christ,” Geoff chokes through gritted teeth into Michael’s ear.

“Oh, fuck it,” Michael says, and as the plane quakes and he relaxes around Geoff, Michael begins to grind his hips. Geoff grunts a curse as the sudden pleasure combines with the turbulence-induced adrenaline.

“Holy shit, Michael,” he pants. Michael keeps working his hips, steadying himself against the counter and stroking himself, tight against Geoff’s length. The plane straightens out again and Michael builds a rhythm, Geoff’s hands light now on his hips.

“C’mon Geoff,” he says, catching the other man’s eyes in the mirror. “This is hardly first class treatment.”

Geoff’s hands go tighter on Michael’s hips and Michael lets himself be pulled firmly back onto the other man’s cock.

“You gonna fuck me or you just gonna stand there?” Michael says, hitching an eyebrow in the mirror. That gets a rise out of the other man, who finally moves to meet Michael’s hips with his own forward thrust.

“Excuse me if I got distracted,” Geoff says, stroking into him, “by the terror of our imminent deaths.”

“If this is our last time, you’d better goddamn make it count, Ramsey,” Michael says, his voice dropping as Geoff moves in earnest.

“Is that what you’re after?” Geoff asks, peering at him in the mirror, rolling his hips forward.

“No,” Michael says, with a frown, “let’s go back to hickeys and handjobs. I’d much rather die that way.”

“Then let’s make it count,” Geoff growls, and then there’s a hand in between Michael’s shoulder blades, pushing him firmly down, and a foot kicking his legs wider. Michael moans at the rough handling--probably a little too loud, but he hadn’t been expecting it--and Geoff’s hands are on either side of his ribcage now as he strokes hard into Michael.

Michael’s moans don’t stop now, in spite of himself, and somehow in the cramped space he starts to stroke himself in time with Geoff’s thrusts. The plane is shuddering again but neither man misses a beat.

“At least--” Michael chokes--”at least if we die, we’ll go out… doin’ what we love.”

“You’re fuckin’ right about that,” Geoff says, curling a fist into the hair at the base of Michael’s skull--and it’s impossible that they’re gonna go undetected, because even with the background roar of the engines, Michael knows the rhythmic thump of two bodies colliding, the occasional obscene wet slap, and the alternating moans and curses couldn’t possibly be staying within the thin walls of the bathroom.

The plane is making what feels like enormous leaps and falls in the air now and neither man can be bothered to worry about it as they go crashing towards orgasm. Michael cums first, his mind going blank and his body going tense as pleasure sparks like fireworks through him. Geoff isn’t far behind, and with a last few desperate strokes, Michael’s treated to the last little bit of stretch as Geoff grits his teeth, burying his face into Michael’s neck, while he cums so hard that it almost starts to hurt the smaller man beneath him.

And just like that, the plane rights itself. They cruise smooth in the air as Geoff struggles to regain enough consciousness and strength to stand back up and stop crushing Michael to the plastic countertop.

“Jesus Geoff,” Michael says, reaching for a fistful of scratchy paper towels as they disengage. “You should try fucking me like your life depends on it more often.”

The two of them struggle in the tiny compartment to clean up and get themselves looking like… well, like two men who didn’t just have sex in a small plastic bathroom hurtling through the atmosphere.

“Who goes out first?” Michael asks, worried that a line has probably formed while they’ve been occupying 50% of the plane’s facilities.

“Fuck it,” Geoff says, twirling his mustache in the tiny mirror. “Who cares?”

Michael sighs, unlocks the door, and cracks it.

“ _Seriously_?” A familiar voice meets them outside the door.

“Uhh, all yours, dude,” Michael says, stepping out of the bathroom and into the small aisle past Ray.

Ray’s eyes track Michael and then Geoff as he follows Michael out, adjusting his belt conspicuously. Ray frowns deeply at both of them.

“Have at it buddy,” Geoff says through a smile, clapping Ray on the shoulder.

“I’m gonna… I’ll wait for the other one to open up,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Michael says. “Hope you’re enjoying first class.”


End file.
